


to the foot of our stairs

by realitywarpinq



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: (also starring First Footman Thomas Replaced Before s1ep1), First Day, Gen, Missing Scene, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Vignette, homophobic choice of language lets say, mentions of it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realitywarpinq/pseuds/realitywarpinq
Summary: It's a tepid day in 1910 when a young man knocks on the back door.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Sarah O'Brien
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	to the foot of our stairs

There’s a good few minutes after his knock wherein Thomas is left alone with his nerves.

It’s eight o’clock on the dot and his suitcase, for as little as is inside, is now a great deal heavier than when he left the station. He sets it down. Picks it up again. He readjusts the coat folded over the crook of his elbow and tries not to make eye contact with any of the delivery workers going about their business in the courtyard.

And then the Scottish housekeeper he met briefly at the interview opens the door, and he stoops to take off his cap.

“Are you the new footman?” She sounds harried. 

"How do you do, ma'am. Thomas Barrow."

She smiles and it's kind but reserved. “How do you do, Thomas. I'm Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper. You’d best be coming inside.”

*

Mr. Carson is hawkish and stern and wastes no time in showing Thomas to his room, leaving him with ten minutes to acquaint himself and change clothes. 

Thomas sits on the bed a moment, taking it in. The room is larger than any he’s ever before called his own, spacious enough for a bed, chest of drawers and modest wardrobe. He can’t imagine how big the valet’s room must be, if a second footman gets to live like this.

He opens his suitcase, unpacks his second pair of shoes, set of day clothes and pyjamas. Beneath them is a sprig of lavender he cut from the garden back in Ardwick, to help him sleep the first few nights in a strange place. 

He places it on his pillow.

Fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket, he turns the vesta case over in his hands a few times. A parting gift from Mrs. Gaskell. It’s nothing special, oblong and silver with a few indented swirls. She probably found it at the bottom of a drawer somewhere and had been meaning to get rid of it when he gave in his resignation. But it’s good not to use a flimsy cardboard box anymore.

There are wire hangers and his new livery inside the wardrobe. It isn’t much different from his last set, but it’s new and made to measure, so that’s certainly another step up.

Mr. Carson returns while he’s straightening his collar in the mirror by the door. 

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas smiles at him, buoyed by this new beginning. Only two steps down from valet, and in such a great house, he’ll make something of himself yet.

“There will be plenty of time to admire yourself later, Mr. Barrow,” Mr. Carson merely says, and Thomas immediately wishes he hadn’t bothered. “You certainly look the part, but let’s see if you act it as well, shall we?”

*

Down two flights of stairs he follows Mr. Carson to the entry hall. Even Thomas, who has little interest or taste for the finer points of the nobility's excesses, has to concede the Abbey is impressive. Entirely impractical and needlessly large, but the family aren’t the ones having to run around it all day, are they, so it makes sense.

He has little time to dally, though, because Mr. Carson doesn’t stop. He pushes open an ornate door twice his height and announces, “Thomas Barrow, My Lord.”

Thomas straightens his shoulders as far back as they will go. Arms straight, back straight, chin up.

The room, unsurprisingly, is decadent, much too big. Lord Grantham and the three girls sat by him are dwarfed by the architecture. Bookshelves line the walls on either side of enormous windows, and the room is filled with tables, couches, a desk and a fireplace; all covered with frills and fuss as though designed purely to confuse and intimidate Thomas’ type. 

He won't let it. More's the pity for them, he’s sure.

“Ah, Mr. Barrow,” the Earl of Grantham is round-faced and nonthreatening. “Good to finally meet you.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, m’lord. I'm honoured to have been given this position. Your home is truly magnificent. ” 

Thomas knows a bit of kowtowing never goes amiss with this lot, and it seems to work.

"Thank you. Mr. Carson is a good judge of character, so I’m sure you’ll get on nicely.” Lord Grantham smiles. He turns to the girls. “My daughters, ladies Mary, Edith, and Sybil. They were quite eager to see our new second footman, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

They're brunette, blonde, and brunette in that order. There's little resemblance between them, save the air of grace and upper-class femininity. 

“I’m quite certain I came in here to read my book,” Mary tells Thomas, her face serene but her tone hinting at an affront. He almost apologises to her.

“How old are you, Thomas?” Edith asks and Sybil giggles behind her hand.

“Twenty-one, m’lady.”

Sybil begins to ask, “And where-”

“I thought I might be the one to ask the questions, girls,” Lord Grantham says as sternly as Thomas is sure a man like him can muster. 

Edith is embarrassed, Sybil is indignant. “But, Papa, he’ll be serving us as well-”

“My apologies, Thomas,” Lord Grantham says. “The ghastly weather's meant they've been stuck inside since Sunday afternoon.”

He wants to point out that the weather's quite fine now. Not exactly sunny, but he had to take his coat off on the walk here. 

But instead he says, “It’s quite all right, m’lord,” and clasps his hands behind his back as Mr. Carson appears through the room’s second door. He hadn’t heard him leave, which he supposes was the point.

Mr. Carson announces that Lady Grantham wishes to speak with Lady Sybil, and with that there are two green bottles hanging on the wall.

Mary picks up her book from the side table. Edith smiles politely at him.

“Carson tells me your last house was of some notoriety?” Lord Grantham asks.

“My mistresses were the daughters of Elizabeth Gaskell, m’lord.” At Lord Grantham’s blank expression he attempts to clarify, “--the novelist?”

Mr. Carson's eyebrows shoot up at his lilt of incredulity, but Thomas couldn’t help it. There wasn't a person in Manchester who didn't know of her.

“Oh, Papa,” Mary gives her father a withering look. “She wrote North and South. _And_ Cranford. We’ve copies of both in this very room.”

Thomas’ father would’ve boxed his ears for the tone of that “oh” alone. But Lord Grantham only raises his eyebrows and gives Thomas a look of jovial embarrassment he can't discern as entirely an act. 

“Ah,” he says. “I must have missed those.” 

“I can get them for you, Papa,” Edith says. “I know exactly where they are.”

“Thank you, my sweet, but not right now. I daresay you’re a reader yourself, Thomas?”

“When I find the time, m’lord, yes. You’ve a very fine collection.”

“By all means, feel free to borrow any which take your fancy. I keep a log book on my desk,” he sweeps a hand over to the table and it’s clear he feels quite the benevolent king, allowing the little people to enjoy his worldly goods as well as maintain them.

“Thank you. That’s very kind, m’lord.”

He says, “Don’t mention it,” which Thomas finds amusing since if he didn’t he’d lose his job. Then, clearly eager to change the subject, “How long were you at Gaskell House?”

“Six years, m’lord. Since leaving school. My father managed to get me into a hall boy position and I worked my way up.”

“Very good. And what is his profession?”

“A clockmaker, m’lord.”

“Quite a difference, then!" He chuckles. "He sounds like a good fellow.”

Thomas is taken aback by the wrongness of this assumption, particularly from someone who could only ever cross paths with a man like Jonathan Barrow if he were bundled into a cab by men in black masks and unloaded onto the cobblestones outside his house.

“You could say that, m’lord.”

Mr. Carson clears his throat. “My Lord, if I may. Thomas will need to get acquainted with the order of things before luncheon.”

It’s possible Lord Grantham senses Thomas’ discomfort, but the moment passes and Thomas doesn't think he would comment either way. None of his concern.

“Of course. My apologies, Thomas, I’ve kept you far too long. I’ll let you get back to work.”

*

Mr. Carson leads Thomas through the baize door to where the first footman is waiting on the stairs.

“Thomas, this is Stanley Morgan. Stanley, Thomas Barrow."

They exchange nods.

"Stanley, could you please show Thomas around downstairs and explain to him his duties," Mr. Carson continues. "I would do it but I've about a million more pressing matters to get to before tonight's dinner. Thomas has experience as second footman but, as you well know, there's nowhere quite like Downton.” 

The genuine pride in his voice is unnerving and Thomas wonders how long Mr. Carson has been here, if living vicariously through the people he serves is a fate awaiting him, too.

“Yes, Mr. Carson.”

Mr. Carson leaves and Stanley visibly relaxes.

He's similar to Thomas in his appearance, which, god willing, means they’ll both be getting premium salaries until one of them leaves. He's got no cheekbones to speak of and his nose is more upturned, but from a distance they could be brothers.

Thomas is taller, but it's immediately apparent that Stanley is a proper man. They descend the staircase and Thomas sees that Stanley's footman training has barely concealed his naturally heavy, self-assured gait. He takes up the entire walkway, so Thomas has to walk a few steps behind, and doesn't look back to check if he's still following.

“Mr. Carson’s a stickler for rules, as you might’ve guessed. You’d think it just an act for the newcomers, but I’ve been here two years and he’s still as tightly wound as ever,” Stanley explains, and his voice is strong and heedless as though not a thought in his head could ever be out of order. “I’d give my left arm to see him fuddled. By my reckoning he's a jolly drunk, dancing and singing like he's performing at the royal opera house. Roger the stable boy disagrees, wagers he'd fall asleep on his second glass."

Thomas doesn't say anything, just follows him to the bottom of the stairs and through the servant's corridors. The cook and kitchen maids are too busy preparing luncheon to notice them, and Stanley doesn't call their attention to introduce him. 

"Steer clear of here when it's like this," he warns. "Mrs. Patmore's a shouter, the louder the closer to mealtime it gets."

They do a lap that takes them to the servant's hall, back by the stairs. The walls are a brownish green and it's decked out quite nicely, but Thomas doesn't have time to examine it further because Stanley turns around to face him.

“So, how was it, your first meeting?” he asks, rubs his hands together as though they were cold.

“Fine,” Thomas says flatly.

“I mean, how’d you find them?”

Thomas squints at him, feeling very much like he’s missed the morning paper. “They're toffs. But that’s hardly unexpected, is it?”

“By God, you dullard,” Stanley shakes his head as though Thomas is beyond help, and he has to work hard to swallow the anger that bubbles up in his chest. “The girls! The _girls_! That Mary’s a sharp young thing, ain’t she? And the youngest, Sybil. She’s somewhat of a hoyden but I expect they’ll straighten her out before her season. A right prime article, that one.”

Thomas' stomach is tight but he does his best to ignore it. 

He looks once about the room to check they're alone, hoping his friendly conspiration will get Stanley to leave off satisfied. “I found the eldest quite rude, if I’m honest. I’m not used to such cheek from a lady.” 

Stanley looks briefly disappointed but presses on. “She’s a firework and no mistake. And Edith? The middling sister?”

Thomas sets his face into a polite half-smile. “I thought her nice, Mr Morgan.”

“Nice?” he laughs, incredulous. “That’s the sort of word my mum would use. Blimey-o-riley, no need to be so French, Thomas, it’s just us young men here.”

Thomas runs a hand over his hair, looking about himself in a panic he hopes reads as bashful. 

Stanley is asking for more than Thomas can give. He knows the words he wants to hear, but also how unconvincing they would sound from his lips. His nature is somehow quite plain for others to see, if they care to, and he doesn't know what to do about it besides avoid situations like these wherever he can.

His dad knew what do it about it. It's how he came to service in the first place. No hands-on work with other men like in the factories or on railways, he reckoned. Long hours focused on noble men and women behaving in the proper way would surely keep the disgrace of his life from further sin.

A load of old tosh, if Thomas ever heard it. His life's been far from monk-like, even as a hall boy. His father knows nothing of the real world, never has, but thankfully Thomas is far away from all that now.

“What I mean is-,” he says, racking his brain. “-my meaning is that she is very pretty. I just think we should-"

A sudden voice interrupts him. "I should hope you aren't bullying the new footman, Mr Morgan."

Stanley snaps to attention and Thomas turns to see a woman he guesses to be a lady's maid, owing to the sewing box and silk dress in her arms. She's hard-faced, the ringlets of her fringe doing little to soften her.

"'Course not, Miss O'Brien, just asking how he found the family, that's all." 

"Stanley Morgan, I grew up with three elder brothers and one younger. I know well what you were asking."

Stanley frowns. "If I'm to show the new man around, can I not make some friendly conversation while we go?"

"I'm sure the new man has had enough of your conversation for the day, and so have I. Anna's cleaning the dining room, says she wants you to come up and move the cabinet so she can dust. I'll see to the footman."

His irritation rises. "You can't just-"

"I can and I am, now go." She puts her things down and calmly arranges them on the table, quite unfazed by Stanley's huffing and puffing.

"I'd watch out for this one, Thomas," he says, clearly thinking himself dignified but really he just sounds petulant. "Miss O'Brien's not one for fun. No, she abandoned that long ago with her hopes of finding a husband."

With that he stalks out, leaving Thomas with raised eyebrows and second-hand embarrassment.

"Don't mind Stanley," Miss O'Brien says mildly, eyes fixed on the table as she sits. "We won't have to put up with him much longer, mark my words."

"I--okay," He wonders how she could know that, not that he's complaining. He isn't a bloody dullard, and that man could use a rude awakening or two.

She continues, "I'm sure you could do his job standing on your head, anyhow," Thomas doesn’t doubt it. "I heard you're experienced. Not like him. Son of an under butler, that's all," she threads a needle and looks up at him. “I've a cousin a bit like you."

Thomas searches her eyes for signs of accusation but she's impossible to read. "How d'you mean?"

Perhaps his tone is more confrontational than necessary, because her eyebrows raise a fraction.

"Not good at boy talk," she says, and then, before he can argue, "There’s no shame in keeping respectful of those you just met. Or at least not blathering your opinions to every Tom, Dick and Harry who asks for them."

It’s inexplicable how calming it is to hear the Manchester accent again. It's only been a few hours since he boarded the train and yet it's a welcome sound. He’d thought himself eager to leave the city behind.

"Indeed," he says, wanting to move the conversation on. He offers a different piece of himself instead. "It's difficult to know how polite to be sometimes. First impressions and all that."

"You do what you have to. But once the first impression passes don't make yourself small for the likes of Stanley Morgan. It's what they want, but you'll not survive by complying."

"I can assure you, I never would."

She gives him an approving half smile. "Sit down, then. I'll patch this up and show you around on my way back up."

He does so, thinking it as good a time as he'll probably get for a smoke. He pulls out a chair across from her, fishes his vesta from his trouser pocket before sitting. 

The first drag pulls the day's tension into his chest where, after a moment, he pushes it out through his nose. The second is warm and comforting and he feels himself return to his body for the first time since he put on his livery.

"Capstan?" O'Brien asks.

He thinks back to when he bought the packet, since he no longer has it. "Benson and Hedges."

"Not the worst."

Funny that she would so openly admit to being a smoker.

"Ever had a cigar, Miss. O'Brien?" He asks, cheeky. 

She stops sewing and looks at him, lightly challenging. "As it happens, yes, Thomas, I have. Much of a muchness, really. And you?"

"No, but I'd sneak puffs of me dad's pipe any chance I could as a young'un."

She exhales amusedly and Thomas smiles, mostly to himself, feeling perhaps he’s found an ally in the basement of this great old house that’s much too big and splendid for either of them.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! I'd love to know your thoughts  
> my tumblr is [@realitywarpinq](https://realitywarpinq.tumblr.com)


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